


Eclipsim

by xxjinchuurikixx



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Knotting, Anal Sex, Bite marks, Blood moon, Claiming, Consent confirmed later, Dubious Consent, Feral Derek Hale, Licking, Lunar Eclipse, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-28 12:12:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15706986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxjinchuurikixx/pseuds/xxjinchuurikixx
Summary: A howl far in the distance splits the air, and Stiles’ eyes fly open as he shoots back up into a sitting position. The howl is followed by another, and another, and Stiles is left to wonder how many of the howls are wolves and how many are mythic beasts that he knows by name. The forest is in an uproar in a manner of minutes, and Stiles looks up at the bloody red moon gleaming, almost completely taken over by the fire of the eclipse.-Red moons are apparently not a good time for alphas. Derek shows Stiles what a feral, aroused werewolf looks like up close.





	Eclipsim

**Author's Note:**

> The dub-con is that Derek is feral and therefore cannot really be considered as giving a definite yes for the sexy times, but it's all worked out in the end. Stiles, as Derek is feral, also tries to halt the situation a couple times before giving in. If that's no bueno for you though, don't worry and don't read. The underage tag is because Stiles is just 17 and two weeks from being legal.
> 
> Come yell at me on tumblr!! [xxjinchuurikixx](http://xxjinchuurikixx.tumblr.com/)  
> -xo, mo

 

  
  


  
  


The books spread across the floor had been stepped on a few times in the need of bathroom breaks and hot pocket retrieval, but Stiles’ eyes are finally starting to lose interest in his studies. He sits on the floor leaning back against his bed, shuffling his notes awkwardly.

There’s a creaking noise at his window, one that is very deliberately made, and then the glass is sliding up and Derek is leaning into the open space.

“Good evening, _Werewolf in London_. How can I help you this fine evening?” Stiles asks without looking up, Derek climbing through his window in his peripheral.

“What is this mess?”

“Trojan war history and my summaries of _The Scarlet Letter._ Would you happen to know anything about genome reproduction?" Stiles grumbles.

Derek crosses the room and leans against Stiles’ desk, picking up a piece of paper that Stiles _thinks_ is his literature quiz from that morning. “I’d have better luck helping you with the Trojan war.”

“History nerd strikes again.”

“I came by to see if Scott told you about tomorrow.”

“What about tomorrow? School stuff? Wolf stuff? That whole lunar eclipse thing?”

Derek furrows his brows at him, and Stiles tosses his notes down and drops his head back against his mattress.

“Yes, I was informed there was a wolf party I wasn’t invited to. On one of the coolest moon-related nights of the year,” Stiles grouses.

“Blood moons are too powerful for you to be around the pack, Stiles. The pull the eclipse has on our wolves is too unpredictable. Some wolves get frenzied, anxious, aggressive… Terribly lazy,” he looks down like he’s thinking of something he doesn’t have anymore, which is a lot of things, Stiles thinks.

He sits up, setting his hands in his lap. “So you think it’s alright to just lock Lydia and Allison up and leave me here? Sitting with my thoughts?”

Derek smirks. “What thoughts?”

“Ha-ha.”

“The pack and I will drive to the far side of the preserve and then run west into the mountains. The lunar eclipse only lasts for a few hours, four at the most, but the shift is uncertain. There are too many variables with a pack this young, and even with my age and having experienced lunar eclipses before, there’s no telling how it will affect my wolf now. I just need to know the members of our pack that don’t have claws aren’t where they shouldn’t be at one in the morning,” Derek says steadily.

Stiles nods, then picks up his phone. “You know, I was doing some reading—“

Derek groans, an indiscernible irritation in the sound.

“Ah-nah, nah. Listen. I was reading up, and I found some things here about the blood moon that could help the pack. Uhm… Eating goldenrods?”

Derek’s nose crinkles violently.

“No? Okay. Honey and cinnamon on your crotch and in your armpits?”

“Where the f—“

“It’s supposed to incapacitate you. Make you pliable. I’m just tryin’ to help.”

“Stiles? If you want to help me, please… Stay inside tomorrow night.”

“How does that help?”

Derek reaches up and pinches the bridge of his nose sharply. “Because, Stiles, you’re pack. And Allison is Scott’s. And the last thing we need is for one of the pups to catch a whiff of your scent and go barreling after it, wondering why a member of their pack is so far away.”

Stiles blinks up at Derek in wonder, slowly lowering his phone. “I… I’m pack?”

“Enough like it to matter,” Derek says. “You’re important—to all of us.”

A grin spreads across Stiles lips, slow and mischievous. “It only took you a year and three months to tell me that.”

“Just don’t be stupid for one night. Can you handle that?” Derek asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

Stiles nods, looking down at his mess of books and notes. “Yeah, I guess so… But I won’t be happy about it.” When he looks back up, Derek is smiling at him, looking almost fond. “What?”

“I think you’ll be alright.” He tilts his head towards the door. “Your dad’s home. Smells like he brought pizza.”

Stiles is on his feet almost instantly, glaring at the door. “How dare he? He knows we only get pizza one night a week. Does he think he can bribe me with food?”

“It’s the surest way to make you do anything,” Derek says, smirking.

“Get out of here; you get no pizza.”

“I’ll be sure to have Scott remind you to stay inside, and to have him text you when we all get back to my house. Once the eclipse has passed we should be pretty exhausted. And by that I mean black-out unconscious,” Derek says, heading for the window as Stiles heads for the door.

“Good. I like to have regular check-ins when I’m not present. No telling what kind of shenanigans you pups can get into.” Stiles pulls his door open, about the same time that his dad’s keys jingle in the lock downstairs.

“Stiles?” Derek calls from the window.

Stiles turns around, scratching his nails over the doorframe. “Yeah?”

Derek hesitates, brows knitting together tightly. Then, looking at the floor, he says, “Keep this window locked tomorrow.”

Before Stiles can really answer to that, Derek slips onto the edge of the roof and shuts the window behind him. Stiles stands there for a moment, confused and glued to the spot, before he hears his dad calling for him downstairs.

Oh, right. He has a pizza to eat and a father to scold.

*

John has to work the night shift all weekend, which means he’s leaving the house about the time the sun starts setting, abandoning Stiles with leftover pizza and a violently active brain.

He sort of promised Derek he wouldn’t go outside, but how else will he see the eclipse? He keeps telling himself that the pictures on the internet will be better than any he might try to take on his phone, but that doesn’t beat the fact that the moon will be bright red on the other side of the sky. He can’t look out his bedroom window to see it, so he hangs out in the living room and waits for the moon to come up.

The night is a promise of certainly boring, but when the alarm on Stiles’ phone goes off, he springs up off the couch and runs over to the window. He kneels down and presses his fingers to the glass, looking up at where the moon is gleaming full and white above him.

The angle is absolute shit, and Stiles curses through his teeth and stuffs his phone in his pocket. “Sorry, Derek,” he mumbles, then heads over to the front door and yanks it open. He stumbles down the porch and into the side yard, the grass bowing under his feet, and the air smells like ozone and smoke.

The moon already has a crescent of red seeping over it, the clouds around it burning silver and bright.

Stiles sits down in the grass, running his fingers over the blades as he settles his head back against his shoulders, looking directly up at the eclipse taking place.

The moon bleeds so slowly, Stiles isn’t even sure how long he’s been outside. The pull of gravity seems to shift all around him, the moon tugging, the trees twisting and shuffling in the breeze. The grass is cold under Stiles’ hands, his neck aching until he’s forced to lay flat in the dewy patch just so he can get a good angle at the moon.

He closes his eyes, thinks about the forest far, far beyond him, where his friends are most likely starting up a frenzy.

A howl far in the distance splits the air, and Stiles’ eyes fly open as he shoots back up into a sitting position. The howl is followed by another, and another, and Stiles is left to wonder how many of the howls are wolves and how many are mythic beasts that he knows by name. The forest is in an uproar in a manner of minutes, and Stiles looks up at the bloody red moon gleaming, almost completely taken over by the fire of the eclipse.

And Stiles is surprised to find he’s chubbing up in his pants. He looks down at his crotch, his semi-hard dick at the point where he could ignore it or take advantage of it.

Stiles, ever the teenage boy, takes the latter.

Casting one last look at the amber-red moon, Stiles scrambles to his feet and heads back inside, locking the front door behind him and heading upstairs without turning off the kitchen light or the lamp in the living room.

He kicks out of his pajama pants, then shrugs out of his sweater, sitting on his bed in his boxers and a soft t-shirt. It’s actually been a few days since Stiles got to jerk off, with school and supernatural things and playing COD with Scott, and with his mind made up on getting an orgasm, his body tingles.

Stiles digs into his drawer, fishing out his bottle of lube. Lying back on his bed, he positions himself comfortably against his pillows, then shoves his boxers down around his ankles, knees falling wide open, thighs spread.

His cock is almost fully hard now, and Stiles breathes slow and deep as he pops the cap on the lube. He squirts a generous amount onto his fingers, gets it warm, and slicks his cock up. Once he’s nice and wet, he reaches his hand between his legs, using his other hand to keep pumping his dick while he sinks two fingers into himself with ease.

The groan that falls from his lips is explicit, and he tilts his head back and squeezes his eyes shut as he crooks his fingers in deep.

He remembers when he first fingered himself, curling his pinky into his ass with tears in his eyes, his cock going soft almost immediately. He’d been scared to try again for months after that.

Of course, then he did what he did best—studied. Lube and patience were his best friends. Soon enough, Stiles knew how to hit his prostate at an angle that was achieved with minimal wrist cramping, and his mind took full liberty of Derek Hale for his anal experiments.

It wasn’t like Stiles planned on coming all over his chest to the thought of Derek fucking him, but that was the exact outcome, and ever since, Stiles found his mind drifting hazily to Derek’s broad hands and soft beard and abs when he touched himself, ass-play or otherwise.

It’s no different now, as Stiles twists a third finger into himself, jaw aching as he tries to recreate from memory the scent of Derek’s cologne soaked into his worn-out Henley. He gasps and pants, pushing his heels into the mattress, angling his hips up as he twists his fingers around the leaking head of his cock.

His mind is a blur, incoherent images of Derek’s hands, his arms, his mouth, his back.

Stiles thinks about the howling in the forest, the moon hazing the minds of every wolf in the trees, and he comes with a shaky moan, spilling over his fingers, body drawn bow-string tight.

He comes down a few minutes later, hands sticky, thighs wet. Stiles clambers out of his bed and shuffles to the bathroom, where he washes his hands and uses his shower towel from that morning to dry between his thighs and the sweat in his pits. He cups his hands under the faucet and takes several huge gulps of water, then meanders back to his room, boxers hanging loose on his hips, flopping onto his bed. He lazily pulls some of his comforters over his body, turning onto his belly as he clicks the lamp on his bedside table off.

The room is washed in darkness, and Stiles’ phone vibrates on the wooden surface. Stiles reaches for it, turning off the alarm that says the eclipse is in full, and then groans.

He had really wanted to see the moon fully red and glowing.

Oh well. Like he thought before, the pictures on the internet would be nice.

Stiles stuffs his arms up under his pillow and lets the tingling afterglow of his masturbation session pull him soundly to sleep.

The breeze coming through his cracked window smells like ozone and pine.

**

Stiles thinks he shouldn’t be such a heavy sleeper, having been raised by a sheriff and also after all the supernatural bullshit he’s been through, but he doesn’t even hear his window get clawed open.

He doesn’t even stir when two hundred odd pounds of werewolf climb on top of him, no.

Stiles only wakes when he feels a beard chafe over his cheek and a huge thigh pushing between his knees. Stiles blinks blearily up at his ceiling, his room dark and dimly red-lit from the eclipse outside, and his body comes back online slowly.

He realizes almost immediately, however, that there’s a werewolf on top of him, grumbling and whining while nuzzling into his neck, and Stiles goes remarkably still.

“…Derek?” He murmurs, lifting a hand to get a grip on a bicep—yup, definitely Derek. “Derek, you okay?”

There’s a growl above him, and then Derek’s tongue is laving up the side of Stiles’ throat, around the shell of his ear in a long, wet stroke.

His dick twitches in his boxers, and he can feel a trickle of lube leaving barely-there slick between his ass cheeks when he clenches down. Holy shit, what the fuck?

“Derek, hey buddy, you—“

Derek growls, teeth nipping at Stiles’ ear, then his jaw, and when he sits back he sets his big man hands—paws—on Stiles’ chest and bares his teeth when he pants.

Stiles’ entire body goes on boner alert because sweet fuck, Derek’s in a beta shift, eyes gleaming ruby and garnet, and he’s very much entirely naked. His broad chest is covered in coarse hair, his abs going on for miles down to a happy trail and then whoa—

“Derek, where are the others? Where’s the rest of the pack?” Stiles asks, sitting up slightly. The action has his blankets shifting, and Derek settles in between his thighs, rubbing his palms over Stiles’ chest to his throat, circling it with long fingers.

He pulls Stiles close, then drags his face gingerly against Stiles’ cheek, the scratching feeling that had woken Stiles before now burning molten sugar in the pit of his stomach.

Stiles has seen Scott do this to Allison unconsciously, nuzzling their faces together like a cheesed kitten. He’s seen Erica and Boyd nuzzle, too. He’s seen wolves on _Planet Earth_ and the _Jeff Corwin Experience_ do it, too!

“Derek, are you scenting me?” Stiles says incredulously, his voice squeaking as Derek removes one of his hands from Stiles’ throat to slot his mouth there. Stiles’ hips buck, a little mewl stuttering from his throat as Derek sucks at the tendon in Stiles’ throat like it’s covered in honey. “Derek…”

Stiles’ hands grapple at Derek’s waist, fingers skidding over sweat-slick, quivering muscle. Derek feels like he’s about to buzz through the shift and be a big ball of fur on Stiles’ bed, but he’s burning hot and clearly incapable of speech.

Stiles thinks of when he laid down and what time it could be now, and he feels a nervous coiling in his stomach when he realizes the eclipse must be in full swing by now.

He thinks of Derek, over concerned for his safety, telling him how the moon made wolves unpredictable, made them frenzied, anxious, aggressive… Derek telling Stiles to lock his window.

 _No way_ , his brain repeats like a scratched record. No way Derek was afraid something like _this_ would happen. _This_ being Derek pushing Stiles down against the bed, marking up his throat in plum and rose, teeth scraping and tongue lapping.

Stiles realizes with a shudder that _this_ also includes one hand fisted in Derek’s hair and the other clutching at his hip as the wolf moves over him. He quickly slaps his hands down on the mattress, trying to sink through his blankets to the floor, out of Derek’s reach.

“Derek, I really think we need to verbalize here,” Stiles huffs, and while his brain is still aware that Derek Hale is not entirely in his own mind right now, his dick only cares about how much Derek Hale is getting all up on him.

Derek purrs, nuzzling the tender mark he suckled and bit into Stiles’ throat, his big hands running down Stiles’ arms, claws catching on the soft skin of Stiles’ wrists. His fingers wrap around Stiles’ wrists, pushing his arms up over his head, holding him down with barely an ounce of power.

Maybe wolf-Derek knows Stiles can’t fight him, so he’s not actively trying to pin him to the bed. Maybe wolf-Derek knows Stiles isn’t going to fight him, so he’s being gentle but still getting his alpha point across.

Either way, when Derek ruts his naked body down against Stiles through the cover of one flimsy comforter and a pair of boxers, Stiles’ back arches up into it and he moans brokenly before he can stop himself.

Derek purrs, delighting in the sound, and then drags his hands back to Stiles’ torso. He chuffs at Stiles’ collar bones, clawing at his shirt as he shuffles down the bed on his knees. The motion pulls the blanket protecting Stiles’ impolite boner down, and he sits up on his elbows and swats at Derek with both hands.

“Derek, stop,” Stiles growls, and when he gives Derek’s nose a good whack, there’s a split second where Derek’s blown pupils contract to almost slits, and then he’s on top of Stiles, claws dug into the pillow on either side of Stiles’ throat, roaring in Stiles’ face. His breath is hot and wet, his fangs gleaming dangerously long in the light, and Stiles’ traitorous dick still doesn’t understand the gravity of the situation.

He gasps, hunching up, making himself small, and mumbles, “Okay, okay, okay,” quickly when Derek is quiet again.

The wolf snorts, then maneuvers back down the bed, sniffing eagerly at all of Stiles’ creases and crevices. He buries his nose into Stiles’ armpit and breathes hotly, hands working Stiles’ hips in a motion that only makes it harder for Stiles to think. He licks at the bit of skin on Stiles’ stomach where his t-shirt has ridden up, nuzzles into his belly button and then pushes the shirt up with his nose so he can nibble and lick at Stiles’ ribs.

Stiles’ hands flutter over the mattress, all blankets discarded, his last shred of dignity telling him not to get his hands back in Derek’s hair.

Derek growls contentedly, leaking a mark on Stiles’ hip before he pushes his face into Stiles’ crotch and breathes open-mouthed along Stiles’ dick.

Eyes flying open, Stiles sits up, hands clutching at the sheets, stomach quivering. “Derek, please, don’t. You’re all moon-struck or moon-blinked… Whatever that movie! C’mon, it’s me. It’s _Stiles!_ ”

Derek’s eyes glint at the name, like his brain knows that word, like it gets through whatever barrier the moon has set up around human and rationality, freeing the wolf. Still, Derek sets his big paws on Stiles’ waist and, eyes still on Stiles’, drags his tongue over Stiles’ balls and cock through his boxers. The friction of worn cotton getting wet from Derek’s drool has Stiles’ every nerve ending fried, his breath stuck in his throat as Derek does it again, then again, then pushes his face into the curve of Stiles’ thigh and bites the tendon through the fabric.

Stiles gives a full body jerk at that, Derek’s hands barely keeping his ass down against the mattress, and he makes a pathetic sound of delight.

Derek pauses, then drags his nose up to the tip of Stiles’ dick and sniffs tentatively at the wet spot Stiles’ cock is leaking through his underwear.

“Oh my god,” Stiles mutters, mortified, and watches as Derek licks at the spot like a dog with peanut butter on his nose. “No… No, knock it off—you need to—Derek. Derek! No!” Stiles squeezes his thighs shut, knees banging together when Derek withdraws his head in shock. Stiles pulls his knees up to his chest, shoving back to put as much of the bed between him and naked, feral Derek as possible.

Derek blinks at him, red eyes glowing in the dark, mouth slightly ajar, chest heaving.

“We are _not_ … continuing this sexcapade any further… Understand, Wolfman?” Stiles says fiercely, despite panting heavily and shaking all over, dick hot and throbbing in his undies.

He’s trying to focus, trying to think about anything other than Derek’s broad shoulders, his narrow waist, the way his bright garnet eyes are looking at Stiles like he’s food, like he’s _prey_.

Then Derek smirks… A very inhuman smirk, full of teeth, tongue lolling out of his mouth as he grabs Stiles by his ankle. When he yanks, Stiles slides down the mattress with a yelp, and then Derek is on top of him again, licking across Stiles’ lips, and then his tongue when his mouth falls open.

It can’t really be called a kiss, it’s so filthy and wet, but Stiles has Derek’s tongue in his mouth, and Derek’s hands kneading his hips, and his body melts into a compliant, pliable heap.

Derek moves back down Stiles’ body, and when Stiles hears his underwear shredding he shoots up with an indignant groan. Derek’s claws peel the bits of fabric away messily, and then he’s lapping at Stiles’ aching cock with zero finesse but extreme care. His fangs never even touch Stiles’ flesh, but his tongue is wet and messy as he licks under the head, from the base to the tip, drooling all over Stiles’ balls and taint.

Stiles’ hands flex and claw at the sheets, his toes curling as Derek licks him eagerly, growling and groaning like Stiles is frustrating him. “Derek,” Stiles moans, thighs quaking, and Derek snarls. Then the world tilts a bit, spinning off kilter as Stiles is yanked into a new position.

Derek has his arms around Stiles’ waist, Stiles’ legs thrown over his shoulders, and he’s knelt up so all the blood rushes to Stiles’ head, his shoulders pressed to the mattress.

“Derek!” Stiles yelps, and then Derek is nestling his nose along the cleft of Stiles’ ass. Stiles’ mouth falls open, his eyes rolling back when Derek takes a deep inhale, then runs his tongue over Stiles’ hole, up his perineum.

Stiles almost comes right then, his cock dribbling precome that drips down his stomach, thanks to gravity. Derek licks over him again, and again, his beard scratching Stiles’ cheeks. Stiles moans wantonly, pawing at Derek’s thighs bracketing his sides, knees at his shoulders, wanting Derek to stop but never wanting it to end.

Derek purrs against Stiles’ hole, the broad, flat of his tongue retreating before it spears into Stiles as deep as it can go. Stiles writhes, digging his nails into Derek’s thighs, rocking his ass up into Derek’s face. It makes Derek squeeze his arms around Stiles’ waist tighter, growling in pleasure as he slips his tongue out, then jabs it back in.

“Derek, Derek, fuck. Oh my god, st… Don’t… Please, oh god—it feels so good,” Stiles whines, chest heaving as Derek alternates between licking him sloppily and suckling at his rim. Stiles knows he must taste like lube, but Derek doesn’t seem to care in the least as he replaces the stickiness of lube with a silky glaze of drool.

It seems to go on and on forever, but finally, Derek relents, lowering Stiles’ hips back down onto the bed, sniffing at trails of precome that dripped all over Stiles’ stomach. He licks at it gently, like a huge kitten, then shuffles up and chuffs at Stiles’ marked throat.

Stiles lifts a trembling arm, petting his fingers through Derek’s hair, nails scraping over his scalp to the nape of his neck. Derek makes a sound that is too pleasured, so indulgent and loving it has surpassed a purr, and Stiles wants to kiss him, _really_ kiss him.

“…Der,” he murmurs, tilting his head to the side. The motion rubs their cheeks together, and Derek jerks back, startled, blinking down at Stiles like he can’t believe what just happened.

With his hand still in Derek’s hair, Stiles pulls them back together, letting Derek’s beard scrape over his jaw, then, face burning like fire, he licks Derek’s god-like cheekbone.

Derek keens, the sound distorted by a growl, and then Derek isn’t on top of Stiles anymore. Well, not for the second it takes to flip Stiles over onto his belly. Derek covers Stiles with his body, panting against the back of Stiles’ neck, licking the sweat there, rutting his cock against Stiles’ spit-slick cheeks.

“Please, shit, fuck Derek. C’mon,” Stiles chokes out, reaching a hand behind him to grip at Derek’s hair and pull.

Derek sets his teeth against Stiles’ nape, snarling as he thrusts aimlessly, unable to bury himself in Stiles in his frantic efforts.

“Wait, slow down, big guy. Hold on,” Stiles gasps, reaching for the lube still sitting on his bedside table instead of hidden in the drawer. He uncaps it and spills too much into his hand, then worms his hand between their flush bodies and—holy shit, hallelujah—gets his hand around Derek’s cock.

Derek groans, the sound the closest thing to a human noise he’s made all night, and Stiles strokes him jerkily, the angle absolute shit. The extra slick drips along his cleft, already warmed just from Derek’s feverish cock, and Stiles bites his lip and stifles a moan into the mattress because his middle finger and thumb can barely touch around Derek’s girth.

He’s not stretched properly for Derek’s cock, not even close, but everything’s so wet and he wants it so bad, he can’t bring himself to care. It might burn a bit, but Stiles knows he’s gonna like it.

“Okay,” he pants, nudging back against Derek, getting himself up onto his knees, his arm trembling as he settles his weight on it. He guides Derek’s cock to his hole, smearing the lube around before Derek tries to buck forward.

The head catches and pushes but doesn’t sink in, and Stiles groans, knees buckling.

“Slow down, Sourwolf,” he huffs, giving it another try. Derek’s clawed hands run up his back, skidding on his sweaty muscles, and they settle warm and flat over Stiles’ shoulders. It feels so good, comforting and overwhelming at once, and when Derek’s cockhead is lined up again, this time, Stiles rocks back into it.

The head pops in, and he and Derek both make broken sounds of delight, then Derek is dragging Stiles backwards into his lap, sinking into him relentlessly until Stiles’ ass is settled against Derek’s thighs.

Stiles cries out, his body going taut, nerves overwhelmed. He can barely breathe, Derek filling him up, splitting him open, so deep and so thick Stiles feels like a part of him has been carved out so Derek could replace that space. It feels so good, the ache and burn of the stretch, the fact that Stiles is on his hands and knees with Derek Hale inside of him. Stiles closes his eyes, lets that last little tidbit melt through his brain like sticky honey, and then he comes in messy spurts all over his bed.

Derek purrs behind him, pulling Stiles’ back flush to his chest, wrapping his arms around him. Stiles keeps quaking, whimpering as his cock dribbles the last of his release, the motion shifting Derek’s cock inside of him.

“Derek,” Stiles murmurs, running his hands over Derek’s arms around his waist.

Derek nuzzles into his neck, nosing at Stiles’ temple, and he’s so very still Stiles is almost worried. The wolf has been so hungry and eager since he arrived, but now he seems nearly content, almost tame…

Almost Derek…

Stiles wriggles a bit, freeing himself of Derek’s grasp, and he settles down on his hands and looks back over his shoulder at Derek, who is looking remarkably dazed. Stiles wets his lips, then pulls off of Derek’s dick, so, so slowly.

When only the head is still inside, Stiles rocks back, taking all of Derek back inside of him with a breathless moan. The slide and stretch prickles, a stinging pain that settles low in Stiles’ back. But he works past it, focuses on the way it feels to be stuffed so full.

Derek growls, shifting, and Stiles nods. “C’mon, Der…” Stiles does it again, and again, and then Derek’s chest is covering his back, broad hands settling on his hips, and Stiles tilts his head back and groans when Derek thrusts into him, quick and hard. “Yeah… there we go,” he chokes out, sparks shooting up his back, a molten coil curling in the pit of his stomach.

His cock has barely flagged, but the way the head of Derek’s dick keeps dragging over his prostate, Stiles gets hard again in no time.

Derek pants into the space between Stiles’ shoulder blades, using that werewolf strength to pull Stiles onto his dick as he snaps his hips forward, and each time Stiles moans helplessly. His sounds of pleasure are torn from his throat, punched out of him each time Derek drives in deep, plunges home.

Soon Stiles’ arms are shaking too hard, and he has to rest on his elbows, Derek holding his hips up. The new angle makes it harder to think, harder to breathe, and Stiles curls his hands into the sheets and drops his mouth open on a reedy cry, punctuated by Derek’s thrusts.

Derek snarls, and he quickly ducks down and laves his tongue over Stiles’ cheek. Stiles blinks up at him, eyes bleary, thoughts hazy. Derek sets his hands on either side of Stiles’ head, bracing himself, and then he starts fucking Stiles so hard and fast Stiles can’t help the tears that spring to his eyes.

He moans and cries, begging, a litany of, “Derek, yes! More, god, please, _more!_ ” Derek didn’t really understand English before, but now Stiles doesn’t even care. He tells him how good it feels, how much he wants it, how much he wants _Derek_ , harder, deeper, right there, please.

Derek takes it all, growling and panting, his hips never slowing or gentling. He hits a particularly sweet spot and Stiles’ back arches hard. He chokes on the sound he almost makes, then his thighs give out and he lays down flat against the bed.

His legs tingle from the hips down, and his ears pound with the strength of his hammering pulse. His blood is on fire.

Derek follows him, pushing his arms up under Stiles’ chest, getting one thigh up over Stiles’ hips like a desperate animal. Stiles’ fingers are shaky, but when Derek lays a hand over one of his, he laces their fingers together tightly, holding Derek there by sheer force of will. Derek whines into Stiles’ neck, his thrusts growing erratic, rough, all finesse out the window as he sinks deeper into his pleasure.

Stiles’ whole body aches, his cock trapped between his belly and the mattress, Derek’s every thrust nailing his prostate so hard he can see stars. It feels so fucking good, he doesn’t want it to stop, he can’t take anymore, but he never wants it to end.

Still, even werewolves have limits, and Derek reaches his like the mounting of a storm.

“Derek, I’m gonna come again,” Stiles gasps, knocking his head to the side, exposing the column of his throat to Derek. “Please, please come for me. C’mon, together.”

Derek whimpers, hugging Stiles so tight his ribs may bruise, his hand numb in Derek’s grasp, and then Derek bites down on the nape of his neck.

It’s a holding bite, meant to keep a mate pinned and willing, and oh, Stiles is so willing. When he feels Derek’s fangs break his skin he goes taut as a drawn bow, and he comes with a silent cry. Derek keeps fucking him, no rhythm, no gentleness, and then his jaw clenches down on Stiles harder, and he keeps fucking Stiles through his orgasm.

It should burn, it should hurt like fucking hell having Derek’s thick fangs in his skin, deep and rocking as he keeps rutting deep and shaky inside of Stiles. But it just stings, a melting pleasure deep in Stiles’ throat, hot and right like a rush of endorphins is blocking any pain Stiles should be feeling.

Stiles can feel the come leaking from his hole around Derek’s cock when he pulls out and then pushes back in, the molten heat of it drenching his thighs, flooding his insides. He feels fuller, like the flood of come is filling him up, Derek’s cock stretching him even wider. He cries, shuddering at how good it feels, how incredibly, insanely _amazing_ he feels.

Then Derek starts crying, whining high and reedy, and he grinds his hips against Stiles’ ass. “Derek, what’s wrong?” Stiles asks, and when he shifts he can feel a sharp tugging inside of him. There’s a relentless pressure against his prostate, his stomach turning with unresolved, inescapable pleasure, and Stiles’ mouth falls wide open. “Did you knot me? Are… are you serious?”

Derek holds him close, keeps him pinned as he grinds his hips slow, tender, the swelled base of his dick tying them together. Slowly, Derek’s jaw unclenches, and he licks tenderly at the marks left in Stiles’ skin. Stiles feels the moment the pain is being drawn from him, the foggy haze of contentment that replaces the stinging ache.

He reaches an arm behind him and cards his fingers through Derek’s sweaty hair. “Derek, I can’t even…”

A pleased grumble is the reply, and then Derek is wrapping Stiles in his arms and rolling them to the side, the knot keeping his cock buried in Stiles to the hilt. He keeps them spooned together tightly, licking softly at the bite mark on Stiles’ neck, running one hand up and down Stiles’ abdomen.

It’s drugging, mind-numbing, and before Stiles’ brain has the chance to get back to panic mode, he’s blacking out in Derek’s arms.

**

The morning was as cheesy as a Disney movie, with birds chirping outside and sunbeams painting Stiles’ floor butter yellow and warm.

His mind is hazy and tangled with cotton candy, and his limbs gooey-soft like melted taffy. So much candy. He’s tangled around something bulky and fire-warm, and everything smells like musky sweat and sweet pine.

Stiles blinks dizzily, his mouth and throat dry. He gives an aborted stretch, his limbs clamping up the second he tried to stretch them, an ache rippling through his body like the sting of smacking a sunburn. He winces, curling back up, and the mass beside him shifts, breathes, and Stiles is instantly so awake it is unfathomable.

He sits up, propping himself on one arm, and looks down at Derek still asleep in his bed. He’s naked, just as naked as he had been last night, but somehow different.

Stiles looks Derek over, takes in the stretch of his shoulders, the roll of his stomach, his sharp, smooth hipbones leading to the thatch of thick, smooth hair at the base of his dick, which even soft is impressive.

Stiles’ stomach clenches, and his morning wood gives an enthusiastic twitch. He stamps down his lust by dragging a blanket up over Derek’s sprawling body—which somehow fits in Stiles’ bed—and he gives Derek’s face a good look.

He’s soft from sleep, brows relaxed, lips barely parted, and Stiles feels a pang ripple in his chest. He wants to run his fingers through Derek’s messy hair, wants to kiss his sleepy mouth and his scruffy cheeks until Derek wakes up and pulls Stiles deep into his arms.

Stiles shakes his head violently and slips out of bed with as little motion as possible. When he gets out of the bed and the floor creaks, Derek still hasn’t moved, his head tipped back with his whole throat exposed. Stiles remembers him saying the moon would drain them, that they would black out afterwards. He snorts. Clearly that much was true.

Stiles heads for the bathroom after picking up his discarded pajama pants, pulling them on as he teeters down the hall. When he flicks on the light and looks in the mirror, he blushes crimson to his ears.

Derek’s left a mark on the side of his throat that can’t be covered up with a bandaid, or even make-up. Probably not even a turtle neck! Stiles leans over the sink and raises a hand to touch the bruise, mottled purple and rosy along the column of his throat, up to the hinge of his jaw.

“Holy fucking shit,” he huffs. He grabs the hem of his shirt and yanks it up, observing the bruises on his hips, some from teeth, others that would surely match Derek’s fingers. He looks at the marks on his ribs, the tiny scratches, the sucking hickies, and his dick insists he go back to his room and ask Derek for more.

But Stiles keeps his head, and he manages to take a piss without making an awful mess, his dick soft enough for that much. He brushes his teeth and scratches a bit of come off of the edge of his t-shirt, then he pauses. There’s a dull ache along the back of his neck, something that is nagging and also very comforting, and Stiles reaches up, so slowly, to feel it.

His fingers find the first mark, a deep cut that’s already scabbing over from a fang, a smaller mark from an incisor. Stiles feels along the marks that had been made from Derek closing his teeth around the nape of his neck, and as he brushes over them with his fingertips, his brain goes blank, his mind light and hazy.

Stiles covers the mark with his palm, tipping his head back to the ceiling, eyes shut in bliss. Whatever happened last night, Derek probably won’t remember, but maybe…

Maybe Stiles can convince him to do it again. Maybe they can make this a _thing_. A thing that entails kissing, because Stiles wanted to kiss Derek so bad last night but, hey, fangs. Stiles’ stomach is uneasy, and when he looks back at himself in the mirror he feels it.

It’s warm, so weird but so good, and Stiles claps a hand over his mouth as he feels Derek’s come start to drip out of him. His blushing is fiery, and he’s having a hard time breathing through his nose because okay, that _did_ happen. It _all_ happened! And Derek…

“Derek,” Stiles says, very softly, and then turns immediately to go back to his room.

He halts in the doorway, his eyes drawn to Derek sitting up in his bed, comforter pooled across his lap, eyes squinting at his surroundings.

Derek’s head tilts, and then he looks at Stiles, eyes half open like everything is too bright. His hair is a fucking mess, and when he grumbles sleepily, “Stiles?” Stiles’ heart hiccups.

He crosses his room, playing with his fingers awkwardly. “Hey, big guy,” he mumbles, sitting on the edge of the edge of his bed. There’s so much room between him and Derek it’s kind of killing him, after he fell asleep spooned against him and woke up wrapped all around him.

Derek lifts a big hand and scrubs it down his face. “Why am I here? What time is it?”

“It’s, uh,” Stiles flounders for his phone. “It’s nine a.m.” Stiles looks at his texts from Scott, confirming their safe return to Derek’s house around four a.m., that Derek ditched them and they had no clue where he was, that he was worried, call him.

Stiles does just that, pressing his phone tight against his ear.

“Who are you calling?” Derek mumbles, looking up at Stiles like a sleepy puppy.

“Scott?” Stiles says when the line stops ringing.

“ _Stiles? Ugh, what time is it, dude? You okay?”_

“I’m great, fine. Totally fine. I got your texts.”

Scott makes an indignant scoffing sound. “ _Yeah, Derek still hasn’t shown up. I remember it, but it was kind of a blur. He stopped running and, like… his whole body language shifted? Then he took off, not even sure which direction. He shook off Isaac and then we lost his scent… I don’t know, it was so weird. The moon was more important than Derek.”_

“Uh, Derek is here. He’s okay,” Stiles says.

Scott goes quiet on the other line. There’s shuffling, and then, “ _Derek is, Derek’s there?”_

“Yeah. He’s alright. Made it through the eclipse unscathed.” Stiles looks at Derek, whose eyes are burning red.

“Stiles, hang up the phone.”

“ _Stiles, are_ you _okay?”_ Scott asks hastily on the other end, and Stiles trips over his words because Derek gets up, snatching the phone from him.

His eyes are locked to Stiles as he says, “Stiles is fine, Scott. Go back to sleep.”

Scott makes a few loud noises of protest, but then Derek hangs up on him and drops Stiles’ phone on his bedside table.

“Why wasn’t your window locked last night?” Derek asks, brows knitting together like he’s in pain, and Stiles shuffles awkwardly. Derek looks down at his own nakedness, then sits back on the bed with a huff, yanking a blanket over his lap. “What happened, Stiles?”

Stiles crosses his arms over his chest, looking down at his feet. “…What do you remember?”

“Don’t play games with me, Stiles. I can smell myself on you,” Derek growls, his ruby eyes flickering.

Stiles levels his gaze at Derek and glares at him. “I want to know what you remember. You’re the one who climbed through my window high on moon rays or some shit, now tell me what _you_ think happened, if you remember anything at all.”

“I remember _all_ of it,” Derek snaps, lacing his fingers together and pushing his forehead against his knuckles. “I remember catching your scent, and running from the others. I remember shifting without being able to control it, I remember climbing through your window and…” He looks up at Stiles, who is still waiting expectantly. “…I’m sorry.”

Stiles blinks, his stern posture and hard glare falling lax as he sees the remorse clouding Derek’s eyes as they return to jade and honey. “What?”

“I remember all of it… How you tasted, how you sounded, how you felt… I thought it was a dream, I thought the moon was messing with my head. Then I woke up in your bed, and I can smell my come leaking out of you,” Derek says, nose crinkling.

Stiles blushes furiously, hands awkwardly tugging his shirt down. “Well, it… ya know, I don’t think we need this conversation after all.”

“Stiles, I wasn’t… myself, last night. I couldn’t think, I didn’t know right from wrong. I just… I’m really sorry.”

“Derek, I’m sorry, I… I should’ve tried to stop you,” Stiles mutters.

Derek laughs, a cold, humorless sound. “Like you could have… Lucky you were willing, lucky you didn’t fight—I could’ve done something terrible. I _did_ do something terrible.” He looks up at Stiles, emerald eyes pale and soft. “I knew something like this would happen… I knew I couldn’t protect you from my wolf.”

“Derek, I’m not hurt—you didn’t do anything to hurt me.”

“So you gave yourself those bruises? I can smell them, Stiles.” Derek huffs, running his hands over the comforter in his lap. “I smelled you… _God_ , I smelled you, sweating and wet and—I just took off. I don’t even know if the others followed me, I just… My wolf was losing it.” Derek pushes his face into his hands. “Stiles, I could have hurt you; I’m so sorry.”

Stiles flounders across the bed, raking his fingers through Derek’s hair, hugging him close. “No, no, Derek, don’t. Shh, it’s okay. You didn’t hurt me, it’s alright.”

“But I _could_ have. I should have—how you managed to get through last night with only a couple bruises is beyond me,” Derek groans pathetically, grabbing Stiles’ hips gently, trying to push him away.

“Derek, it’s alright.” Stiles wraps his arms around Derek’s neck, effectively holding himself to the wolf’s shoulders. “If anything, I should apologize. I should have tried to stop you, I should have talked to you. You didn’t have the mind to consent.”

“Stiles, you _did_ try to stop me.”

“How do you know that?”

“I told you I remember everything… Your voice is clear, but last night it was like you were talking to me through glass. My memories are less hazy. You tried to stop me.”

“But you didn’t, and I just let myself be okay with it.”

Derek makes a sound like a pained laugh, his hands settling on Stiles’ hips. “You seemed a little more than okay with it.”

Stiles pulls back, keeping his hands laced together behind Derek’s neck. “Hey, you can’t tease me about this unless it’s okay for us to do it again… Is that okay?”

Derek closes his eyes and knocks their foreheads together. “Stiles… you’ll be eighteen in two weeks. You’ll be graduating in three months. I couldn’t even keep my hands off of you for that long.”

“Were you trying to?”

Derek sighs, wrapping his arms around Stiles’ waist. He drags Stiles into his lap, Stiles’ legs wrapping around his waist easily, and he can feel Derek’s cock through the comforter. It’s not hard, but the press of it so close to Stiles’ wet entrance makes him shiver. Just a little bit.

“Of course I was trying to… But what does it matter now?”

“Well… I was thinking, last night… how badly I wanted to kiss you.” Stiles lifts his hand, cupping Derek’s cheek, running his thumb over his smooth stubble. “But you had fangs.”

“We’re getting off the subject,” Derek murmurs, eyes drawn to Stiles’ lips.

“What subject?” Stiles says, and then he kisses Derek softly. Their lips brush, then press, and Stiles has to pull back just to breathe in again. Derek winds his arms around Stiles’ waist tighter, holding Stiles close as they kiss again, and again, and then Derek licks Stiles’ mouth open with gentle but persistent swipes of his tongue.

They groan into each other’s mouths in unison, licking and tasting each other as their lips slot together and their tongues writhe over one another.

Stiles has never felt so peaceful and yet so out of his mind. He wants to have Derek undone beneath him, but he wants to cradle him in his arms like this forever. He wants to get the blankets out of the way and ride Derek with his hole still loose, still wet.

Derek breaks the kiss first, his hand cupping the nape of Stiles’ neck. “I bit you,” he sighs breathlessly.

“It’s okay,” Stiles says. “I liked it.”

“Stiles, no. I marked you mine,” Derek says, and Stiles doesn’t like the sound of his voice, like he’s coming back up from the haze of their kissing.

So Stiles kisses him again, then again, and he rocks his hips down against Derek’s lap to distract him further, raking his fingers through Derek’s messy hair and tugging. “Good. That’s so totally fine with me. As long as you’re not upset about last night.”

“Not as upset as I should be,” Derek growls. “But I _am_ upset the first time I knotted you I couldn’t even tell you how good you felt.” Derek rolls his hips up, holding Stiles down against his lap. “How sweet you smelled, all sweat and eager lust. I’m upset the first time I fucked you I couldn’t even take the time to stretch you with my tongue and fingers. I couldn’t tell you how gorgeous you were when you blushed while I ate you out, how your voice was the only sound in the world that mattered.”

“How can you be talking dirty but sound so sincere and fucking adorable?” Stiles groans, kissing Derek’s cheek, his temple, burying his face into Derek’s neck so he can breathe him in. “We can make up for it. How about you fuck me right now, and you can say all those things, and then we can shower and you can come all over my mark? Would you like that?”

Derek makes a predatory, delighted sound, and he tackles Stiles backwards onto the bed. “Will you go out with me?”

“Uh, duh.”

“Really, please. Do you want that?”

“I want you. So much,” Stiles says, cupping Derek’s face, rubbing their noses together. “We can wait, if you want. I know how you feel—about this.”

Derek shakes his head. “You make me do stupid things all the time. This is something I won’t regret.” He brushes the backs of his knuckles over Stiles’ cheek, sighing across his lips. “I don’t regret you.”

“Me, neither.”

“Do I even want to know what’s going on here?” John’s voice calls from the hallway, and Stiles bends his neck and Derek lifts his chin, and they both look at the sheriff standing by the doorway.

Stiles dully notes he’s still wearing his gun, and he hugs his limbs around Derek protectively. “Hey, dad! I didn’t realize it was already time for you to come home!”

“Derek… care to explain?” John says, completely ignoring Stiles.

“…Wolf things, sir.”

“Uh-huh. And, uh… you’re both okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Stiles?”

“A-okay, dad. We’re totally alright.”

John stands there quietly for a moment, then points between them. “So, uh… this a, this a thing now?”

Stiles is about to flounder for an excuse, anything to save Derek’s perfect ass from a bullet wound, when Derek says, “Given recent circumstances, sir, I’d like to ask for your permission to date Stiles. Please.”

Stiles looks up at Derek, the angle making his cheekbones look sharper, his lashes thick and dark over his amber-forest eyes. Stiles can’t believe how beautiful Derek is, no matter how many times his brain thinks it.

John puts his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “I was just coming to see if you wanted to go to breakfast with me and Melissa… but you seem busy right now.”

Stiles nods. “Super busy. Also not hungry.”

Nodding, John looks back at Derek and holds up one finger. “You have today… then, I want you to ask me again in two weeks. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you,” Derek says, his voice shaking, and Stiles gawks at him because _when_ does Derek Hale’s voice ever shake?

“Good. If you’re still here tonight for dinner, we’re having meatloaf… please wear pants,” John says, turning on his heel.

Derek’s face flushes, and he squeezes his eyes shut. “Yes, sir.”

“Bye, dad!”

“We’ll talk about this later, kid,” the sheriff calls, and then Stiles hears the front door shut.

He reaches his hands down and grabs Derek’s ass, which had been on prominent display since the moment Derek rolled on top of him, the comforter pressed between them. “Holy shit.” Stiles starts giggling maniacally, covering his mouth with both hands when he finally lets go of Derek’s ass.

“Shut up! That was not funny!”

“Sorry, Mr. _Werewolf_ Senses. Why didn’t you hear him coming?” Stiles snaps, still tittering.

Derek drops his face into Stiles’ neck. “I was a little preoccupied… you’re very… distracting.”

Stiles’ laughter dies down, his hands raking through Derek’s hair. “I’m dating a total dork.”

Grumbling, Derek scratches his beard over the bruised hickey on Stiles’ throat. “Not yet you’re not. Two weeks.”

“But I already said yes!”

“And if I’m lucky, you’ll say it again in two weeks, when you turn eighteen.” Derek pulls back, cupping Stiles’ face in one broad hand. “Nothing about this is easy, but I want you to know that the moon didn’t just drag me kicking and screaming into your bed… I wanted to be here last night—me. Derek. Not just the wolf, but all of me.” He slides his hand to the nape of Stiles’ neck, fingers playing over the marks scabbing in the skin. Stiles’ eyes flutter shut as the dull ache of splitting skin is replaced with a warm, pulsing comfort of Derek draining his pain.

He slides his arms around Derek’s neck, pulling Derek closer. “I promise, I wanted you here, too…”

Derek kisses him, languid and needy, until Stiles’ entire body is washed through with that honeyed tingle.

“This is so weird,” Stiles huffs, hands in Derek’s hair, Derek on top of him, kissing him like they’ve done it a thousand times.

“Why?”

“Just… you’re _Derek_. And we’re… _us_. I dunno, I guess I always wanted it but I never saw it coming,” Stiles says, thinking back to that first day he saw Derek. He snickers, scratching one hand over Derek’s jaw. “You didn’t have this beard back then…”

Derek grins, carding his fingers through Stiles’ hair. “And I couldn’t have done this,” he says, then grips Stiles’ hair and tugs his head back, leaning down to kiss Stiles’ throat slowly.

“So, what’s the plan here? Cause I’m getting kind of worked up.”

“Hm. The plan is to get as much of you as I can before your dad comes home for dinner,” Derek purrs. “Though I know I won’t be satisfied, I need something to hold me over for another two weeks.”

Stiles hooks his knees over Derek’s hips, pulling him into another kiss. “Hey, quick question…”

“Hm?” Derek sighs, kissing Stiles’ cheek, his temple.

“When’s the next eclipse?”

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

>   
>  Nothin' like a little feral Derek and some lunar eclipses!!


End file.
